Dream-Tip
I live for vacant white nights:
devoid of stars and ocean hues,
a loose-leaf tainted ivory sky
that's just a whisper short of true.
Life's metronomic father points
his stale batons toward my mind,
though only to be broken down;
alone, I left him ticking blind.
The homeless shadows beg of me
for concrete shells to live within,
though I would never hesitate
to fill my inner evening den.
I am the author of my dreams;
I am the paper and the pen!
I sleep for chronic impulse:
the resonance of ceaseless bliss,
a feeling wrapped in brittle dust
and formless like a will-o-wisp.
Life's bittersweet horizon peers
into my deep nocturnal space,
though only to be torn apart;
I had no need for such a face.
The boundary linking earth and sky
does not exist for chainless hawks,
so like a bird, I'll take command
and pave the path I want to walk.
I am the proctor of my dreams;
I am the blackboard and the chalk!
I muse for vibrant futures:
the pliant maps of mental jumps,
a polychromic destiny
that topples every other trump.
Life's bland reiterations ring
around my silken paradise,
though only to be cast aside;
I needn't play with faulty dice.
The mirror to my distant past
is calling me with whispers faint:
"you must retain your future's seed
and tend to it without complaint."
I am the artist of my dreams;
I am the canvas and the paint!
No reality can keep its grip
on the cryptic force of my dream-tip!
Copyright © Michael Perriatt | Year Posted 2009
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